Boys & Girls Together by William Goldman Read Free Book Online Page A

love to.”
    “Seven o’clock,” P.T. said, and this time he did turn.
    “Don’t you want to know where I live?”
    P.T. laughed again. The Harding house was as famous as any in St. Louis—thirty-five rooms, so they said, piled in the center of six green acres along Kingshighway. “Don’t you worry,” P.T. told her. “I’ll find you.”
    And, promptly at seven—he had never been late in his life—he pulled his new Packard into her driveway. She was ready for him and, after fencing with her father—not that it mattered but they liked each other; they both went for the throat—P.T. took her to dinner.
    They dined at the Chase Hotel. She ordered lobster and against his judgment, he did the same. She badgered him into it. “Oh, you’ll love the lobster here. It comes straight from the shores of Maine in New England. Take the lobster. Please, Mr. Kirkaby. Please.” Reluctantly, he submitted, but with vague fears; he had never ordered lobster or chicken in a restaurant before. While waiting for their food they danced some. Dancing bored P.T., but she liked it and was adept, cool, elegant, in his arms. Finally the lobster came and they sat down. She picked up a red claw and deftly dug out the rich white meat, chattering on all the while about what a fine dancer he was for such a big man. He watched her gut the claw and then, emboldened, commenced his own attack. Alas. His hands were too powerful and he cracked the claw with ease, sending splinters of red shell onto the floor, the tablecloth, her plate. Hurriedly P.T. sipped some water, then forked his vegetables into his mouth. She was eating the tail of the lobster now and he watched her carefully, searing the sharp hand movements into his brain. When he was sure he knew how, he began again. Alas. Again the red splinters scattered. P.T. covered his face with his napkin, staring down at his plate. He thought he heard her laughing and when he could bring himself to look at her he saw that she was laughing, and hard, tears streaming from her eyes.
    “What’re you laughing at?” P.T. managed, though he might just as easily have hit her a good one.
    “You eating lobster.”
    The honesty of her reply embarrassed him still further, so for a while all he could say was “Oh.”
    “It really is funny,” she assured him.
    “It is, huh?” He watched her a moment. “I never would have ordered the damn thing except you insisted.”
    “I know that. That’s why I insisted. Of course, it was an outside chance at best, that you might not be familiar with the niceties of lobster demolition, but I had to take it.”
    “I don’t like being laughed at,” P.T. said.
    “Neither do I, Mr. Kirkaby.”
    “P.T.”
    “P.T.”
    “I never laughed at you.”
    “Oh, come now. When we met, and you just looked at me. You were laughing then. And when you asked me to dinner you were practically standing behind me, you were so close. And that was cause for laughter too. Wasn’t it? Wasn’t it? ”
    “Maybe.”
    “Yes or no?”
    “Yes.”
    “All right.” They looked at each other across the table and he was surprised by the brightness in her eyes. “We’re all trying to survive, aren’t we, P.T.? You do it your way, I’ll do it mine. Don’t you mock me. I won’t mock you. Fair?” Then, without waiting for a reply, she smiled and reached out to take his hand. “You poor man, you must be famished. Order yourself a steak.”
    P.T. held her hand and laughed and snapped his strong fingers clear and loud and three waiters scurried out, converging around him, nodding while he ordered a sirloin. When the steak came, P.T. released Emily’s hand. But not before.
    At ten-thirty he drove her home, walking her up the great stone steps to the great stone house. Thirty-five rooms. He believed it now.
    “I enjoyed myself,” P.T. said.
    “I’m glad.”
    “You too?”
    “Does it matter?”
    “Goddam right.”
    She flushed at that, opening the front door, moving inside, turning.